LEVITICUS 19:19
By
Roger Clucas
COPYRIGHT 2009 Roger Clucas
Smashwords Edition
Cover images by Robert Adrian Hillman,
at Dreamstime. com & CDC/ Brian W.J.
Mahy, Public domain.
Cover by Joleene Naylor
… Thou shalt not let thy cattle gender with a diverse kind: thou shalt not sow the field with mingled seed: neither shall a garment mingled of linen and woollen come upon thee.’
- The Holy Bible
Leviticus 19:19
PREFACE
Despite the voluminous works covering the Second World War, surprisingly little readily accessible material exists on the Nazi medical experimental programme on human beings. The planned and wilful suffering, terror and naked horror inflicted as a result of that programme, eclipses Hell itself.
When measured in terms of numbers, the victims of medical experimentation were but a drop in the ocean. Those who committed the crimes were even smaller in number. But playing down the significance of the programme on the grounds of low statistical materiality, is as irrational as glossing over the Crucifixion because it only happened once.
My coverage of these abominable deeds is at macro-level rather than micro-level. It is nonetheless hoped that the brief overviews given will provide some insight into what can happen when science becomes an end, rather than a means towards an end.
Following closely on the heels of perverted science during World War Two, a second theme spanning this book is that of its modern counterpart. Whether known as Biological Warfare, Germ Warfare, Bacteriological Warfare or Genetic Warfare, the process whereby Man has acquired the tools to play God is the most significant military discovery since the invention of gunpowder.
Officially banned throughout most of the world, the public should remember that laboratory-designed armies of viruses are invisible, silent, untraceable, know no boundaries, have no need of supply lines, are relatively cheap to produce, never sleep, cause no property damage and fight to the death.
It is irresponsibly naïve to believe that treaties will halt research into genetic weaponry, if they are still unable to control the proliferation of highly visible and quantifiable conventional weapons. We should be far more alert to the very real threat this poses to mankind than we are. Events around 911 and global terrorism generally illustrated this clearly.
The 1998 Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) hearings following the introduction of a democracy in South Africa revealed in over 1000 pages of testimony and in subsequent trials the existence of active research into chemical and biological warfare between the late 1970’s and early 1990’s and the employment of these agents against political and military adversaries. In the wake of revelations that South Africa was already a clandestine nuclear power, all the ingredients existed to make events such as those portrayed in this account, and more, very plausible.
This book is set in the Apartheid South Africa of the late 1980’s and reflects the very real legacy of naked racism, genocide and an apocalyptical mindset among extremists matching that of any suicide bomber of today, desperate at any cost to avoid the seemingly inevitable and imminent transition to democracy.
During the last decade of white rule in South Africa (the 1980’s) the ruling Nationalist Party majority shrunk progressively and there were huge gains by the right and left wings as polarisation took hold. The Democratic National Alliance or DNA at the centre of this account did not exist and did not win the 1987 elections as portrayed herein. Neither did the Republiekeinse Bond (RB), the Christelike Jeugvorum (CJ) or the National Security Agency (NSA) exist. While the extremist oganisations mentioned above are fictitious, they are highly representative of polarities at the time. Other parties and extremist organisations which featured in the political milieu of South Africa are factual and generally have bibliographical references supporting their track records.
While the protagonists of extreme views have increasingly been driven underground in the intervening years, they are far from defeated or silenced and a visit to any bar in many parts of South Africa will confirm that little has changed in some quarters as 2010 approaches. There would still be an ample supply of eager volunteers prepared to ‘press the button’ on what is described herein.
This book was researched and written in the late 1980’s – the days when months of research in libraries long preceded a few days of trawling the internet, when laptops with word processing software had not yet transcended typewriters, when mobile telephones were unobtainable and when email and GPS were distant and futuristic dreams. The bibliography is given by chapter for those with an interest in studying source material but contains few URLs for reasons already given.
Rhodes
9 April 2009
‘Never Again’
Inscription upon the International Memorial at the ex-Concentration Camp Dachau,
Dachau, near Munich.
Federal Republic of Germany.
GENESIS I
CHAPTER 1
DACHAU
CONCENTRATION CAMP
NAZI GERMANY
APRIL 1942
David Maczek stirred painfully, inwardly trying to isolate the cause of his awakening without unnecessary movement. He at once ruled out the gnawing hunger that never left him, the teeming lice, or a sudden movement from the gaunt, smelly bodies sandwiching him on either side. These he was too accustomed to. Had it been a suicide in the adjoining washroom? Had someone thrown themselves against the electric fence? For some inexplicable reason, he felt that great danger was close at hand.
He heard voices at the far end of the wohnblock1 and then all the lights were switched on. The 17-year-old Polish Jew shielded his eyes from the naked bulbs so close to his face, pushed his neighbour’s left foot to one side, and peered over the end of the cot. Despite the cool evening, he had started to sweat.
The sound of several people approaching their stube2 along the 90 metre long passageway had already woken the Stubenälteste, or room senior. He had the luxury of a 2’6” bunk to himself and was sprouting Russian profanities while pulling on his shoes when the Blockälteste, or block senior, entered. Three uniformed men, one of whom was a medical officer in the service of the Luftwaffe, accompanied him.
The inmates did not need to be told to claw their way to attention. The two non-commissioned officers, sporting the dreaded skull and crossbones of the SS-Totenkopfverbände3 on their caps, nonetheless saw to it that the process was completed in record time. Blows failed indiscriminately and hands, knees and feet were put to effective use amongst the emaciated husks of men. In under ten seconds, the pitiful complement of 234 men, less two who had died since evening roll call, were at attention on the cold, wooden floor.
David had nervously glanced down the passageway to the other rooms of the hut. Whatever the bastards wanted, it was clearly in their room alone, for the occupants of other rooms were already climbing back into their cots, arranged in a three-tier system that had expanded the capacity of their hut from 208 to nearly 2000 persons. This had been accomplished by abolishing the day rooms, adding an extra tier to the two-tier bunks and removing the sparse tables and stools. 4
David anxiously cast his eyes about for his father, who had been sleeping beside him, taking care not to attract attention. They had got split up in the chaos of reaching the floor from the third layer of cots, or would have been standing beside one another as they always did. He could not see him, so guessed he was somewhere behind him, in his blind spot. Paralysed with fear, the compressed group of destitute men waited to learn why they had been awoken at 3 a.m. – the time being obtained from studying the just visible watch on the wrist of the younger SS non-com.
Was this to be a search for bread crusts the men might have managed to accumulate for a needy day? Were they to be executed, or transported to another camp? Worst of all, were they to be interrogated by the dreaded Vernehmungsführer5 or the Politsche Abteilung? 6
The Luftwaffe officer was clearly enjoying the obvious terror his visit had created. Concentration Camps were the domain of the SS. Visits by Wehrmecht officers had occurred, but always as part of an organised tour. Unofficial notice of such a tour was always the rule. Everything was cleaned, ‘model’ quarters arranged and good, nourishing food was prepared so that the ‘groundless rumours’ about the harshness of the Concentration Camp system could be dispelled.7
The confusion was soon ended. The rather short officer with the undernourished ginger moustache pushed, with some effort, past the SS guards into the small space available and thrust his cap into the un-expecting hands of the Blockälteste.
He had a long face, accentuated by a receding hairline that made his forehead look unusually large. The mouth was small, and coupled with very large, penetrating brown eyes, gave the officer a determined and somewhat quizzical expression. He could have been little over thirty.
It was when he smiled that David realised that they were in the presence of a very dangerous man – why, he didn’t know. Possibly something about those eyes that reminded him of a cobra he had seen devour a frog in the Berlin zoo as a child. He shivered momentarily, the reflex being spotted instantly by the officer, standing up no more than a foot away, who turned on the boy, hands akimbo.
‘What is this pig’s name?’ he demanded of nobody in particular, sneering into David’s unblinking eyes, which held his gaze.
‘Maczek, Herr Stabsarzt!’8 replied the Stubenälteste nervously. The officer was furious.
‘How can this be Maczek, you imbecile?’ He turned to the SS-Rottenführer9 who had unknowingly supplied the time to David, and demanded an explanation. He is a child! I have seen the file, you forget. Show me Maczek before I shoot this vermin!’ the Rottenführer grabbed the Stubenälteste by the throat and threw him against the wall. David’s heart thundered in his ear-drums.
‘Explain, you shit!’ he demanded.
‘The boy is David Maczek,’ Herr Rottenführer. It is his father, Yaakov Maczek, that the Stabsarzt appears to seek. He is over there – behind the boy. Maczek! Step over here at once!’
The staff Surgeon relaxed perceptibly. David’s father stepped out into the small space in which the officer stood and came to attention. With a swift movement, the Stabsarzt ripped the threadbare striped uniform from Yaakov Maczek’s shoulders. The action clearly caused him considerable pleasure. He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly examined the body of the still sturdy blacksmith who, together with his son, had only recently been interned. He paid particular attention to the older man’s back, mumbling appreciatively. After what seemed an eternity, the officer spoke.
‘Maczek, you have under ten minutes left to live,’ he said cheerfully. ‘My informants recommended I do a ‘Leather Inspection’ and I must say, that tattoo of the sailing ship on your back is most unusual. Yes, indeed, well worth all this inconvenience to me, in fact! Is there anything you would like – a cigarette perhaps?
David felt he was going to be sick. It was surely a dream! Here was a medical doctor who had been to university and spent years learning how to save lives and tend the sick. An Officer in the Air Force of an old and culturally rich nation. A man whose father before him had possibly been a doctor, and he was talking about removing his father’s skin from his living body, so as to have a tattoo as a souvenir of sorts!10 No, he could not accept what he had heard. There was a mistake. Even the SS could not stoop so low. The staff surgeon grew impatient.
‘Come Maczek! Have you lost your tongue? Your hide could grace the hands of some truly fine German ladies. Alternatively, your tattoo might be fashioned into a superb handbag. Immortality will be yours, don’t you see? Surely a destiny far above the station of a race-polluting Jew pig such as you? Be practical, man!’
Yaakov Maczek sighed. It was as if the life force had left his body – the coup-de-grace from some invisible rapier piercing his soul. In that moment, he died spiritually. He turned to the ‘doctor’ of medicine.
‘May the Great God understand you, if he cannot forgive you, Herr Doctor. My friends here are tired and wish to rest. May we leave now?
He turned to embrace his son. David was by this time by his side and observed too late the Luger as it crashed into Yaakov Maczek’s face. Again and again and yet again, the officer lashed out at the man’s mouth until he collapsed, choking on the dribble of blood and teeth that gushed from his twisted lips. The man was white with rage, took off the safety catch and thrust the gun barrel deep into Maczek’s throat. His trigger finger blanched, and then relaxed. The SS guards looked crestfallen at the apparent display of humanity. Their sentiments were premature, for this was no common-or-garden Luftwaffe Staff Surgeon.
David, throwing the obvious consequences to the wind, flew across the room at the ‘doctor’, going for the little man’s throat. His fingernails were long and dirty and in an instant the Nazi was on his back, the life being squeezed out of him, blood streaming from several large cuts on either side of his neck. The Luger was flung free and the eyes that seemed larger than ever were filled with malevolence the boy had never seen before. He was suddenly conscious of an agonising pain, and then nothingness enveloped him.
Yaakov Maczek was drowning in his own blood. He emerged from a twilight world conscious that he somehow had to roll onto his stomach and clear his airway, or gurgle himself to death. His face felt as though it had been dissected into a dozen pieces. He tried to turn himself over and was at once aware of a firm, but caring pair of hands coming to his aid. He was in a soft bed with crisp white sheets and everything smelt clean and fresh. Different clothing covered his body. Although it was clearly impossible, it felt as though he was clad in pyjamas. The idea was dismissed as an absurdity. If only he could focus his vision!
‘Lay still, Herr Maczek,’ a middle-aged female voice said softly. ‘Conserve your energy, and soon your accident will be a thing of the past. You are in the SS hospital. The stitches will hurt you if you try to talk. I will let the Stabsarzt know that you have awoken.’
Maczek tried to form a word and began retching. What was obviously a bed pan was gently propped under his face. He felt warm, and wanted, and safe. All was well. Or was it? Then everything began to spin ……
David Maczek regained consciousness in the middle of the parade ground. He was bound face down to a rack like structure that served as the Camp’s whipping post. He was naked, half frozen and had all the symptoms of severe concussion. The sun was still not up and he was alone, watched over by distant sentries in their machine-gun nests and bathed in a cruel glare from the ever-present floodlights. An SS guard dog barked in the distance, otherwise all was still. He waited for the 6 a.m. roll call, at which his fate would be sealed.
The sickening odour of burning human flesh wafted over the huts from the Krematorium in the north-west. Even at this hour of the morning, those dead and murdered the previous day had not yet been disposed of. He thought of his sickly mother, Esther. After their family being on the run from the Gestapo for almost two years, execution had probably been a welcome relief. But how had his baby sister faced up to the ordeal?
Natalie was only seven and the horrors of belonging to a hunted Race, where the hunters preferred wounding to outright killing, had turned her into a mental cripple. Had they died together? Had it been fast? Tears clouded his eyes.
He turned his thoughts and prayers to his father, by now almost certainly dead. David realised now he had no reason left to live. The thought comforted him and he remembered something his father had said to him when their cattle truck pulled into the siding at Dachau three weeks previously. ‘You can only die once, my boy.’
Little did David realise that even such a fundamental truth would be proved invalid in the very near future, impossible as it seemed. An event was about to occur that would scar his mind for the remainder of his life. His comfort was to be brief indeed.
After 40 lashes in front of the entire camp, each lashing having to be called out by David in numerical sequence, he was a physical wreck. He thanked God he had not made a mistake in calling out the numbers, for the punishment would have started afresh. 11 But instead of a week on his back in the relative hygiene of the Revier, or Camp Hospital, he had been sent, or more accurately dragged, to the dreaded punishment Bunker, or Kommandantturarrest.
This hell, better befitting the more sadistic highlights of the Inquisition than the 20th Century, was a place to which many were sent, only some to return. No rules governed it’s function in the case of ordinary prisoners, but when it came to the Eastern Jews, the diabolic imagination of the specially selected SS guards climbed to the heights that would have offended many of their less dedicated comrades.
David Maczek had committed a crime punishable by death by shooting, or hanging. The fact that he was still clinically alive could therefore only indicate that those in command had thought up a more appropriate punishment. Death was to be approached one drop of sweat at a time.
He had come to, conscious of the indescribable pain resulting from one of the guards urinating over his torn and twisted back. His body had arched once or twice, and with the sound of sadistic laughter ringing in his ears, he again lapsed into blissful unconsciousness. His respite was brief. A pail of cold water was emptied over him and he was heaved to his feet by his captors, who stood in a circle for a reason David would soon understand.
A rope was fastened somewhat tightly around his neck and tied to one of the rafters in such a way that unless he stood on tiptoes, he would be the cause of his own strangulation. His feet were lashed together and his arms tied behind his back. He was then pushed from one convulsive guard to the next, each movement off the vertical progressively cutting off the blood supply to his head, the pressure of their hands on his back causing a white-hot pain to arc across his body like an electric current. Soon his knees began to buckle, the pail of water was re-applied, the rope slackened tightly and the pushing resumed.
Eventually the water had no effect, and his disappointed captors, tears of laughter streaming down their fresh young faces, cut the cord and let the boy crash to the wet floor like a felled tree, where he lay for over five hours.
David awoke after noon in a minute cell which was known as the Stehbunker. 12 He could neither stand, nor lie down and had lost the circulation n both legs. His hunger was only surpassed by his thirst and when he tried to move, he grasped from pain caused by abasing his back against the wall of the ‘box’. The ‘door’ opened.
‘Here are your rations, Jew pig,’ a particularly menacing voice said. David turned his head.
A young SS-Mann13 pressed a crust of bread into his trembling hands. David put the bread on the floor and reached desperately for the small tin cup of water in the guard’s other hand. The guard saw the craving on David’s face and pulled the cup just out of his reach, smirking at the anguish this caused the boy.
‘Don’t you want the water, you shit?’ the Private enquired, wearing a mock expression of surprise. ‘Your lips are so cracked, your mouth so dry!’
David grabbed for the tin. The Private deftly pulled the container out of range and then held the tin up before David’s agonised eyes and slowly poured the precious liquid onto the concrete floor. The Private roared with laughter as David sank back into utter despair, covering his face with his hands. The door was locked and the laughter grew softer and vanished.
He ate some of his bread ravenously, tears streaming down his face. It was stale. His body had never endured such agony and despite his exhaustion, sleep was impossible. He wondered how much longer he would be forced to live by a survival instinct that lacked the ability to realise that there was nothing left for which to survive. He greedily consumed the remainder of the stale bread and prayed for death to come swiftly.
It was the afternoon of David’s third day in the Bunker. He had been beaten, tormented and was unable to sleep. A guard dog, teased by the SS and then set upon David, had mutilated his left forearm, the wounds on his back had gone septic and he knew he was on the verge of entering a delirium from which he would not emerge.
The previous evening, his index fingernails had been ripped off using a pair of pliers, in punishment for cutting the face of the Luftwaffe ‘doctor’. They had made him do sit-ups, all the time asking him mockingly why he lowered himself onto his back so slowly and for the third time, he had been suspended from the rafters. In all this time, David had been given only one cup of water. He could almost taste death, it was so close. He was aware of an unfamiliar voice approaching.
‘Where is this Maczek youth?’ the stranger asked the other pair of footsteps.
‘He is in the Stehbunker, Herr Untersturmführer.’ 14The door opened. David was pulled out by the young guard who had spilled the water. David collapsed on the floor, unable to straighten his legs.
‘Come to attention, you scum!’ the SS-Mann commanded, kicking David in the kidneys. The officer ordered him to stop, with obvious distaste.
‘This is a Jew, Herr Untersturmführer,’ the Private said defensively, then added, with emphasis ‘a Polish Jew,’ thus letting the Lieutenant know that he was here dealing with one of the lowest categories of sub-humanity, or Untermenschen, second only to a Russian Jew.
‘I have the file, SS-Mann. I went to school, so I can read and am quite familiar with the Racial Policies of the Fatherland. Now keep still unless ordered to speak!’ Heels clicked and the Private swallowed hard.
‘See that this man is given a meal, cleaned up and delivered to the conference room of the SS Revier before 18h00. here are the papers for his release.’ The Private saluted.
‘At once, Herr Untersturmführer.’
David arrived at the SS Revier at 17h50, exactly. He could not but notice how different everything was to the Camp Revier. The standard of hygiene was superb, the wards seemed outstandingly equipped, staff were immaculately clad and there was an air of restful recuperation about the place. In the Camp Hospital, patients had been culled for being too noisy at night. Essential drugs were withheld and it was seen as a halfway house to the Chimney. This hospital was a tribute to the pioneers of German medical science.
David’s wounds had been sterilised and dressed, he had been given sausage, potato and jam; and a cup of sweet tea. His body was washed and his uniform was crackling new. A better camouflage job had been seldom been done, right down to the new leather boots in the place of the habitual wooden clogs.
There were two people in the darkened conference room, one man sitting behind an audio film projector loaded with film, and the SS Lieutenant who had procured David’s release. The projector was at the end of an oval table, pointing towards a linen sheet fastened to the far wall. The officer was at the other side of the table, facing the entrance to the room, drawing heavily on a Camel.
He looked more displeased than he had before, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray so hard that several sparks fell on the floor. He crushed them angrily with his foot, motioned to David to sit and dismissed his two-man escort from the Bunker with contempt. He lit another cigarette and turned away from David, parting the curtains to look out across the buildings towards the Krematorium’s smoking chimney. He drew the curtains angrily, as of offended by the sight, remaining with his back turned to the boy.
‘Your father is dead, Maczek’ he said at length. ‘He, uh, was …. he died,’ he corrected, ‘this morning.’ The officer cruelly flicked the ash onto the floor. David’s eyes began to fill with emotion and the officer’s focus was lost in the darkened surroundings. The Untersturmführer continued.
‘Your father, having insulted and ridiculed an officer, was liable to immediate execution. Naturally, being Political Criminals, 15 you were under technical sentence of death on your arrival.’
‘By which court were we sentenced and made criminals, Herr Untersturmführer?’ David enquired bitterly.
‘Do not interrupt, Maczek!’ the Lieutenant barked. ‘You are a Polish Jew. That alone is punishable by death! I will now continue.’
David was incredulous. He was being told that because of his faith and because he born a Pole, he had committed a crime punishable by death!
‘Your father took two days to recover from the injuries he sustained when the officer in question was forced to defend himself.’
‘Defend himself!’ David exclaimed. ‘He was like a raving maniac and attacked my father!’
‘You will stay quiet, Maczek!’ the officer commanded and faced the boy for the first time. ‘I will not tolerate these interferences!’ he lit another cigarette, drawing on it as though he could turn its length to ash in a single draw. ‘He was given the best medical treatment to make him quite fit for the, … well, so that he could recover.’ Again the ash flicked to the floor.
‘When your father had recovered, he was given a choice. He could face summary execution at the firing range, or volunteer for a very important experiment. The experiment carried certain risks, which he understood, and he was to be pardoned to a Concentration Camp for life if he survived. Unfortunately, he did not.’ The Lieutenant crushed the Camel and this time did not worry about the sparks.
‘The officer your father so brutally assaulted, apart from being a doctor in the Air Force Reserve, is also attached to the personal staff of the Reichsführer-SS, Herr Himmler. In that capacity, and under the direct authority of the Reichsführer, such experiments are conducted. They are top secret and concern the War industry. Many are filmed for later analysis by a panel of experts in Berlin and elsewhere.’16
Suddenly David’s perception of why he was in this room with drawn curtains became clear. The projector, the nervousness of the Lieutenant, the preamble about ‘legal death sentences’ was fitting into place. He wanted to escape, to flee the room, to reach the electric fence and put an end to the nightmare.
‘It is the decision of the officer you attacked,’ the Lieutenant continued, ‘that you should observe this film of the experiment in which your father gave his life to science. So that you may once again be proud of him after his cowardly behaviour the other night.’
David rose from his chair, terror crossing his face. Before he could move, the projectionist pinned him to the chair and the Lieutenant handcuffed him to its arms. His legs were bound, the lights extinguished and the projector came to life.
He promised himself he would look away, that he would close his eyes, but he could not. Whether it was morbid fascination, a desire to see his father one last time, or just plain shock, his eyes kept returning to the screen. Reducing numbers flashed across the linen sheet and were replaced by a clear image of the Luftwaffe officer, who began talking at once. He was in some form of laboratory. Subconsciously, David noticed with pleasure that his neck was bandaged. His scratches had left their mark.
A fairly long lecture, filled with scientific jargon on altitude, air pressure and the ‘bends’ was presented. The ‘doctor’ made it clear that he had a very high opinion of his work and derision for all who opposed his theories. The need for secrecy was repeatedly stressed. He came across as fanatical, or unbalanced, and seemed to suffer from an inferiority complex.
‘The experiment about to be conducted on Test Person Maczek, a 40-year-old Jew in good health, will be ‘terminal’. He will be placed in a Pressure Chamber and taken to a simulated height of 12 kilometres for a period of about 30 minutes without oxygen or pressure equipment. Death should occur following very severe bends, as has been established in prior experiments. Once breathing has stopped and the electrocardiogram has proven the cessation of life, an attempt will be made to reproduce the amazing results witnessed in an earlier experiment – the autopsy should result in the Jew coming back to life!’ The officer was electric with excitement, his large eyes positively dancing.17
David watched in horror as the screen temporarily went blank, and then displayed four images concurrently. One showed elapsed time, another an electrocardiogram reading, a third showed the altitude in metres and the fourth and central image was that of his father, suspended by parachute straps from a metal bar in a steel room. He was conscious, but had a scarred and swollen face. The filming was done at five minute intervals, per the ‘doctor’, who would provide suitable comments where necessary.
After five minutes had elapsed, David watched his father, sweating profusely, begin to shake his head about. Stabs of pain were making his body lurch involuntarily and he was screwing up his eyes. The ‘doctor’ commented with some satisfaction, that the ‘bends’ had ‘set in well.’
The boy began pulling at the handcuffs restraining him and flexing his legs. He would watch no more, but did.
The ten minute scene showed his father foaming at the mouth, trying to pull his own hair out and attempting to knock himself unconscious by striking his head with his fists. His complexion had darkened. The man was in pain which had to be seen to be believed. Suddenly his pulse rate dropped from 125 to 30. The screen froze and the officer matter-of-factly summed up the period like a sports commentator between rounds of a boxing match.
‘Severe cyanosis has developed. The pulse rose dramatically and the Test Person showed signs of severe bends, losing consciousness at an elapsed time of ten minutes forty-nine seconds, whereupon the pulse rate dropped.’ The man’s voice was full of anticipation, as if to say ‘just wait and see what lies ahead!’
David could take it no longer. He managed to overturn the chair he was sitting in, gritted his teeth and tightly closed his eyes. He vomited until he could vomit no more and began screaming hysterically. The chair was righted, the projector stopped, and David slapped several times by the Untersturmführer. A hospital orderly was summoned to clean up David and the floor. The SS officer lit another Camel and sat down opposite David, who was trembling so that his teeth chattered.
‘I know it is messy, Maczek, but think of the results, man! Scientific progress is never easy. Your father will some day be famous, and you will be proud of this day!’ at last the man could bluff himself no more. ‘The film will continue. Those are my orders.’ David closed his eyes and began to shout.
Surgical plaster was used to cover his mouth and the show went on.
Yaakov Maczek stopped breathing after thirty one minutes and ten seconds. His son watched in horror as the scene transferred to some sort of dissection room. The clock showing elapsed time was again suitably positioned and the electrocardiogram reading was visible. The perverted little ‘doctor’ was poised, scalpel in hand at an elapsed time of 63 minutes. The electrocardiogram confirmed his father’s death. ‘Dissection of the Test Person will now begin,’ he beamed, and set to work with a will.
The chest cavity was opened and a clear yellow liquid emerged from the pericardium. The quack faced the camera and said ‘Now observe closely.’ The right auricle began to beat at a rate of 60 beats per minute, according to the electrocardiogram. ‘Test Person Maczek has returned from the dead, yet he is not breathing!’ the Frankenstein-like ‘doctor’ proudly observed. The right auricle was then punctured after some 20 minutes and for about 15 minutes blood spurted forth. Heart action continued.
David had now reached a state of shock where he watched the proceedings without comment or expression. He was in a dream world, a nightmare from which he could not escape.
An hour-and-a-half after the experiment commenced, all compressed into a film of under 20 minutes, David watched his father’s brain being removed. Frankenstein made his last speech.
‘After the brain was removed, the action of the auricle ceased for about one minute. It then renewed it’s action, stopping finally 8½ minutes later. A heavy subarchnoid oedema was found in the brain. In the veins and arteries of the brain, a considerable quantity of air was discovered. Furthermore, the blood vessels in the heart and liver were enormously obstructed by embolism.’ He looked proudly over the gore of what once had been David’s father.
‘That concludes the experiment on Test Person Maczek. I have again proved that the human organism is capable of more than one clinical death, a finding of inestimable significance!’
David slumped in the chair. At last his system had short-circuited. The projector was stopped, the curtains opened and medical orderlies summoned. The SS-Untersturmführer felt they would be too late. Disgusted, he left the room. His duty had been done.
In a specially equipped room under a hundred metres away, a hide was stretched out over a wooden frame. Although it was still bloodstained, the craftsman knew his orders. The old man summoned his assistant.
‘Felix, here is another delivery for block 5 in the prisoner’s camp. You know – the mad doctor.’
A German in his thirties took the frame with some repugnance and began to walk towards the door. Only when outside did he notice the somewhat unusual design. A ship in full sail. He shivered momentarily and then set off from the SS-Camp to the Concentration Camp. He hoped its unwilling donor had arrived safely on the other shore, even if he had been an animal. Or had he?
He spat, and cursed the War.
CHAPTER 2
BERCHTESGARDEN
NAZI GERMANY
APRIL 1945
The flight from Berlin had been torturous, arriving over 20 minutes late. An experience best forgotten by the 15 terrified passengers aboard the tired Junkers-52, whose unfortunate crew had, within the hour, to re-negotiate the path they had just traversed.
The continent of Europe, caught in a pincer movement between the Russians in the east, and the British, French and Americans in the west, lay in ruins. The Luftwaffe, which had once driven terror into the hearts of half the cities of the world, now had to think twice about flying non-offensive missions within the cramped borders of their native Germany. Soon, the corridor between Berlin and the south would be closed. The war had been lost, or won, depending on where you were at. Forces that were to shape the remainder of the 20th Century were grouping for the final act.
The small man with the receding hairline, but no longer sporting that somewhat patchy ginger moustache, stepped carefully onto the runway. The attaché case handcuffed to his left wrist urged him to seek out the promised driver and escort from the Obersalzburg. The air was much colder than Berlin and he clumsily pulled up the collar of his overcoat with his free hand. He was no longer used to civilian clothes.
A group of heavily armed SS men were positioned around a hangar some 500 metres away. As he began to approach them, an arm touched his shoulder somewhat firmly. ‘This way, if you please, Hauptsturmführer’1 someone panted rather anxiously behind him.
It was one of the passengers from Berlin, a rather nondescript fellow in his forties who throughout the flight had not taken the least interest in the man with the case. So he was being watched. Had he ever not been watched? What awaited him amidst these lofty peaks where the Third Reich was to make its last stand?
He followed the agent in silence to a staff car. The door was wrenched open by a huge plain-clothes man who looked as though he could have swung Jabba the Hutt of George Lucas fame off the Titanic’s anchor cable for a good few twirls with one tied behind his back. There were no greetings or exchanges of pleasantries.
A third representative of one of the many tentacles of the SS was sitting on the other side of the car at the back. He did not even glance at the slight man about to sit down beside him. The doors were closed and the giant drove off, looking as though he would rip the steering wheel from the plush dashboard and hurl it over the border into Austria at any moment. The passenger was not sure whether the agent disliked short men, or aircraft that arrived late. He didn’t ask.
The wooded drive to Obersalzburg was scenic and uneventful. Although the short man knew Bavaria well, he had not hitherto visited the shrine of Nazidom where the Fuehrer had put the finishing touches to ‘Mein Kampf’. This was indeed the ‘German Riviera’, where those who mattered had looked out over the Waltzmann and the Hochkalter and decided world events.
They passed Hitler’s ‘Berghof’, where the Mussolini’s and Chamberlains came calling, caps in hand. It was truly magnificent, flying the largest Swastika he had ever seen. The memory of the horror and devastation in Berlin and the scarred countryside over which he had flown contrasted sharply with the trimmed lawns and sleepy pathways of this idyllic spot. He wondered how many days it would take before the first of the last ‘thousand-bomber’ air raids began turning this chocolate box scenery to ash. The war seemed so far away here. It was good for confidence. Good for morale.
Looking about him at the mountain peaks and rugged terrain, he wondered how the Allies would ever win a land battle in the area. There were many rumours about the Obersalzburg and its expansive underground bunker systems, secret weapons and stockpiles of men and materials.2 Whether or not Goebbels had exaggerated about the place, the average German had no way know of knowing.
What was known, however, was that Eisenhower had taken him seriously and had changed the path of his armies from Berlin to Bavaria. The thought of the Fuehrer directing the last battle of the war from a secret mountain fortress was nonetheless romantic and very German, when one thought about it. Like Wagner, or Beethoven, it stirred the Aryan soul.
They turned south at the ‘Haus Zum Türken’ and pulled in at the impressive SS Barracks behind the Kindergarten. The north face of the Kehlstein sloped majestically down to where they were parked. The place had the atmosphere of a spa. Until the big man nearly wrenched the door off its hinges, which the ginger-haired Hauptsturmführer interpreted without hesitation as a signal to alight from the car. The man who had met him at the airport went into the barracks.
The three men transferred to a strange looking vehicle that was a cross between an armoured car and a bus, which headed off along a track leading eastwards along the mountain face. The small man could no longer hide his curiosity and cleared his throat.
‘Might I ask our destination and the function of this strange vehicle?’ he offered.
The ‘Silent One’, who had still not once glanced at the passenger from Berlin, removed an immaculate leather cigarette case from his breast pocket, pressed a catch, and offered the visitor a Turkish cigarette.
‘I don’t’ the little fellow apologised. ‘I am a doctor,’ he added, as if this would explain his abstinence. The ‘Silent One’ gave a twisted smile, lighting the cigarette with the carefully cupped hands of a soldier.
‘Doctors are the heaviest smokers I know,’ he said with significant irony. Before the visitor to his domain could continue, he inhaled deeply, turned to the doctor and let the sweet odour escape from his nostrils as he spoke. ‘Our destination is the ‘Eagle’s Nest’. Up there.’ He thrust with his thumb towards the roof of the vehicle. ‘This is a specially designed vehicle that has only one gear – low gear. The road climbs, or falls, depending on one’s direction, too steeply for the average car or lorry to do the round trip in safety. We will pass through five tunnels, climb about eight hundred metres and cover a distance of roughly six kilometres. You can calculate the gradient quite simply.’ He closed the conversation by putting out the cigarette and admiring the scenery. On his side of the bus.
What the ‘Eagle’s Nest’ was, why they where going there, who was there and the other ninety-seven questions would have to wait. The doctor admired the scenery too. Slowly negotiating a series of S-bends, surrounded by lush vegetation and a variety of wild flowers, there was indeed a lot of to be admired. The sheer drop in places was staggering and the view of the surrounding mountains breathtaking.
Eventually, looking through the driver’s window, and craning his head at an angle that hurt, the doctor noticed a structure perched on top of what appeared to be a sheer face of rock. He looked for signs of a ski lift or footpath but saw only chalk-coloured rock. He turned to the ‘Silent One’. ‘I am no mountaineer or foot soldier. How in heaven must I reach that!’ he asked with emotion.
‘There is a lift, Herr Doctor. You do not suffer from claustrophobia, do you?’ he taunted. The doctor did not reply.
If there was a lift, it was well hidden. The place was eerie. He clutched the attaché case reassuringly and wondered why the screaming engine had not seized from overheating. They were nearly at the top.
The bus arrived at a widened space that seemed to be a parking area. The doctor studied the face of the Kehlstein closely. Other than observing several swooping eagles and the fact that the ‘Eagle’s Nest’ was some 100 to 150 metres from them in a vertical direction, he could not see how the building could be reached. They left the vehicle, it’s rapidly cooling engine ticking rhythmically in the much cooler air.
A stiff breeze had come up and the party set off, hugging the white wall of stone. The doctor noticed a slight breathlessness from the altitude. They rounded some bushes and came to an enormous bronze door set into the mountainside, framed by large blocks of rock. The sentries on duty challenged the party. Papers were displayed, a field telephone operated, and at length the massive doors parted to reveal a paved roadway bathed in overhead lighting, boring into the very heart of the mountain.
The small man was transfixed. The ‘Silent One’ led the way and the doctor got a not-so-gentle prod from the Muscle Man. The tunnel was an architectural masterpiece, but paled into insignificance some 120 metres later when the 3-man party stood before the open doors of The Lift.
It was the largest lift the doctor had ever seen, constructed of what looked like pure copper, a cluster of eight ornamental light fittings on the roof. Seating for at least a dozen people hugged three of the four walls, the plush leather almost inviting one to sit down. Another prod. The doctor and the ‘Silent One’ entered, the pushy man clearly not being allowed past this point.
The door closed and the great lift began to rise. Ninety seconds later, the contraption slowed and halted. The door opened into some form of entrance hall, the doctor noticing that the border around the lift door consisted of the most magnificent Carrara marble. They stepped out, and were asked by two immaculate guards to identify themselves. A door was opened by one of the guards and the ‘Silent One’ spoke for the second time that afternoon.
‘You go through, Hauptsturmführer. I have instructions to see that you are undisturbed.’ He smiled. ‘You are now safely within the ‘Eagle’s Nest’.’
The doctor entered a large semicircular lounge. The roof was beamed, the floor lavishly carpeted and a log fire blazed in a hearth constructed of the same Italian marble. He had not noticed the figure standing at a corner window looking across the top of the world. The man turned swiftly, as if startled.
‘Sigmund! Dr. Sigmund Rascher!3 I see you have the case! Come and sit beside the fire. The afternoon is chilly!’
The doctor, utterly taken aback, could no more than offer a weak and belated Hitler Salute, his mouth hanging open. Before him stood the most powerful man next to Adolf Hitler, and certainly the most dangerous man in the world. Heinrich Himmler savoured the moment to the full.
‘Heil Hitler!’ he acknowledged, enjoying his visitor’s shock. ‘I hate having to repeat myself, as you know. Please sit,’ he squeaked.
The man addressed as Rascher continued to gape at the Reichsführer-SS, using his free hand to pat his way to a chair. What in the name of God did all this mean?
The bespectacled Reichsführer-SS was wearing his customary leather overcoat with a cream cravat. Without his cap, it took a trained eye to notice the shoulder tabs and insignia on his belt buckle, indicating the head of the SS was in uniform.
Rascher had seated himself at right angles to the fire, with his back facing the door. The attaché case was in his lap. He noticed that his hands were sweating. His face was one big question mark. Himmler remained standing, steadily pacing backwards and forwards, parallel to the fireplace as he spoke, arms behind his back.
‘Yes, Sigmund. You have many questions. Although you do not know it yet, we have little time. Let me commence. Have you heard the rumours about my trying to arrange a separate peace with the Western Allies?’4
‘Malicious lies! Enemy Propaganda!’ Rascher replied without hesitation.
Himmler stopped and looked the doctor in the eye. ‘They are true, Sigmund. The reports are absolutely accurate! Fortunately, the Fuehrer shares your opinion. For the moment at any rate.’
His mouth stretched at the corners. It could hardly be called a smile, but was the closest Heinrich Himmler could get to the expression. He recommenced his pacing. Rascher was speechless. The head of the SS had committed treason.
‘The point at which a War is lost is subjective, Sigmund. Some say we lost the War when the Russian offensive failed. Others think it was when the Allies landed in Normandy some ten months ago, while many feel it was when our fuel situation became critical. These are all technically valid observations.
‘My official standpoint would, of course, be that the War is lost when our beloved Fuehrer signs the instrument of surrender.’ Rascher eased slightly. ‘But then we are called on to spout sanctimonious nonsense from time to time.’ Rascher rose. This was a trap. A loyalty test. He had travelled hundreds of kilometres for a game.
‘Sit down, Sigmund!’ Himmler commanded, his tone icy, gazing through his subordinate. ‘I know this is difficult for you, given your training. Do you think it is easy for me? I trained you!’ Rascher sat slowly and the Reichsführer continued exercising his legs and his authority. It was no game.
‘The War was lost, from my point of view when the Fuehrer was forced, however involuntarily, to begin to forfeit our birthright, Sigmund! The day the first enemy soldiers crossed our borders was the time to …, yes, let me use the word … to surrender. That was the point beyond which combat was insane, just as insane as the Fuehrer’s ‘Scorched Earth’ policy. We owe Germany to the Germans, Sigmund. Any price above that is unacceptable to me. For that reason, I have tried for months to bring the War to an end. It is our duty! Can you dare say I am less German for that?
‘History will eventually vindicate Heinrich Himmler. Himmler the crucifier of the Bolsheviks, who stand poised to rape our beloved Berlin. Who I believe will still forcibly occupy Berlin fifty years from today! Himmler, the murderer of the Jews, who want their own homeland. Granting that wish will guarantee a world conflict far worse than this, mark my words! Himmler, persecutor of the subhuman Negroid species who dare to suggest that they, too, are people! You are a doctor – you have surely studied their skulls and compared them to the ape kingdom? The pious fools will regret opening the zoo gate, for they will release a black flood that will sweep from the world the last vestiges of civilized culture. Give them bananas, not votes!’ Himmler had to sit. He had begun to tremble.
‘Sigmund, do not dare to question my actions or beliefs! We are discussing matters of which you know nothing. In five or ten years, you will only begin to understand my words. Instead of Hitler being cheered for a thousand years, he will be jeered for two thousand! You and I with him!’ the Reichsführer began to take deep breaths in an effort to calm himself.
‘If future generations will only look to why we did what we did, not how we did it there will still be hope. Do you hang a butcher for carving up a pig? The world lacks perspective….’ Slowly, the SS Head rose, he paced up and down the wide lounge twice and threw a log on the fire. Rascher was turned to stone.
‘How well do you know your Bible, Sigmund?’ Himmler asked, mouth once again stretching. One did not major in Theology in the SS and the question produced still further confusion on the face of his subordinate. Rascher felt as if his compass would in future reveal the North Pole to be in Australia. He did not reply. Himmler was no mood for replies today. Ignoring his own question, rhythmically going through the motions of polishing his glasses, the man with the cravat continued.
‘I have considerable power. The Wehrmecht is smashed. The army is disintegrating. Doenitz has a Navy without any ports. Goering’s eagles have become featherless caged canaries. Only my Schutzstaffel5 remains more or less intact. One SS man is worth twenty regular troops and places such as the Obersalzburg are, in essence, mine. My men will follow me to their graves and we have vast stockpiles of war materials at our disposal. If I let the SS off its leash tomorrow, Sigmund, the war could continue for another year. For obvious reasons, I am not taking that course of action. The SS will not fight, but withdraw. They will be portrayed as cowards by the enemy. Nothing will, however, be further from the truth.’
Himmler replaced his glasses on his nose and developed a far-away expression. He turned his back on Rascher, eyes fixed on the glowing logs in the hearth. There was a new note in his voice, something the doctor couldn’t recognise.
‘Sigmund, I have told you, when I considered the war to have been lost and the responsibility I see us having to future generations of Germans. Territorially we cannot meet that responsibility and if anything is left of Germany to be governed by Germans, it will be a pariah state for generations.
‘But there is much more to being German than the dust beneath your feet. It is not thoughts of sausages and Wagner, either, which inspired young mariners below the rough surface of the Atlantic to heroic deeds. There is something more than all that, Sigmund.
‘Where would you expect to find the clearest understanding of the true German spirit in Germany today, Doctor? Rascher thought it would be hard to give the wrong answer to so leading a question. ‘Without hesitation, in the ranks of our beloved SS, Reichsheini,’ 6 Rascher replied, his pet name for Himmler slipping out by accident.
‘Exactly!’ Himmler approved, turning to face the doctor. ‘Now do you see why the SS cannot be used as cannon fodder? The cream of German society would be wiped out! How could the noblest, most intelligent, bravest and purest of men – handpicked for their exceptional talents – be sacrificed in so senseless a way by their own Reichsführer?
‘Only the SS can provide the pure Aryan racial breeding stock to ensure that future galaxies of Germans, wherever they might live, will retain amongst them a few shining stars. Suns that will fashion their solar systems in the image of their fathers!’ Himmler was in another world. The Nuremberg Rallies, the torch lit parades and the ‘Sieg Heils!’ were ringing in his ears. There was a long silence before he continued.
‘It is the SS that must survive this War and the flood of humiliation and retribution that will follow it, ensuring that the true German spirit reaches the 21st Century unchanged and undaunted! Surely, Sigmund, the Biblical connotations have become clear to you?’ Himmler gestured with his hand. Comment was demanded.
‘Could you be referring to the story of the Ark, Reichsführer? Some Jew pig called Noah, I think it was.’
Himmler was thrilled. ‘Absolutely! Noah’s Ark! I am the modern day Noah, and you are all my passengers and crew, Sigmund! I have doubts about myself surviving the voyage – I am too well known. You, and others like you, must.’ He started the pacing routine again.
‘Project Noah was conceived by me at the beginning of 1944. By August last year the necessary business arrangements were made by our leading industrialists, supposedly without my knowledge. 7 People I have handpicked due to their specialised backgrounds have arranged false papers, escape routes through our friends in the Roman Catholic Church, funds transfers, technology transfers, the acquisition of foreign business and a dozen other things to ensure the survival of the Schutstaffel.
‘The funds that will be at the disposal of our exiled SS after the War will give it the financial influence of an entire national economy, not just a mighty business grouping. Under proper management, anything will be financially possible. That, however, is no more than the hothouse and water and fertiliser. It is the plants that concern me!’
Rascher had heard rumours of an escape plan. That it had been masterminded by Himmler at a time when Germany still occupied the whole of Europe was a startling revelation. The attaché case was taking on a new significance.
‘For more than a year, Sigmund, you have been devoting your efforts to Project Noah, without realising this. You may have been my seed gatherer ever since I removed you from your beloved research station at Dachau, under such curious circumstances. Some seeds are of course more important than others, which is why you were based at Auschwitz for so long. Indeed, you would still have been there had the Russian swine not captured the Camp some three months ago. 8 You have the Auschwitz material with you, of course?
Rascher gripped the attaché more tightly. ‘it is all here, Reichsheini. That plus all the rest. I have a full inventory.’ Himmler nodded.
‘From what I have said it will be clear to you that there is more to Project Noah that the preservation of our beloved SS. Think of it as a triangle. The base consists of the enormous financial muscle and complex administrative arrangements I have put in place to ensure the survival of all we have striven for, via efficient co-ordination. From the base to the apex are two legs. The one leg concerns medical matters, which is obviously why I summoned you here today. The other leg concerns science and technology in its broadest sense.
‘Provided the base is kept intact, the two remaining legs can function in isolation of one another and yet achieve the total strategy. For you to appreciate the potential of this total strategy, you must be aware of the highlights of the technological leg in general terms, even though you are not involved in this field of research in any way. I will give you a file containing all the details in a moment. For now, an outline of our lead of more than five years in military technology alone should make the point. It is a glorious example of the superiority of the German Mind.’ Himmler stopped pacing momentarily as if to marshal his thoughts, then set off purposefully again.
‘We produced the ME-262-1A, the world’s first jet fighter, in July 1942. since then the Bachem-BA-349B-NATTER, the ME-163, the ARADO-234B and the HE-162A-2 have taken to the skies. 9 The revolutionary type XV11 WALTER U-boat, capable of 21 knots submerged, powered by closed-circuit turbines which avoid the need to schnorkel, is superior to anything the Allies have put into the sea. 10
‘Our rocket research programme has been astounding to say the least. The V-1, V-2, ENZIAN, HS-117, RHEINMETALL RHEINBOTE, A9/A10, A4-B, C-2 WASSERFALL and the REINTOCHTER R1 rockets may met with the varying degrees of success, but have revolutionised warfare and left the Allies with their mouths open!11 We launched the world’s first guided missile attack on August 25, 1943 and models such as the FRITZ-X HENSCHEL-HS-293/294 and the KRAMER X-4 have put the fear of God into the enemy!’ 12 Observing the startled expression on Rascher’s face, the butcher’s eyes twinkled haughtily.
‘So you see, Sigmund, we have done a lot more that produce the world’s first electron microscopes!13 And the amazing inventions I have just described are not vague theories or crude prototypes – they are operational weapons of war! What, I hear you ask, is sitting in the wings at this very moment awaiting release? Let me tell you of a few of the more startling achievements waiting in vain to join our arsenal.
‘These include a wind cannon, a sound cannon, a hurricane cannon, a sun gun, an infra-red image converter, a gun with a barrel length of 150 feet and a range of 85 miles, the ‘arrow’ shell and more than a dozen revolutionary aircraft incorporating vertical-takeoff and swing-wing models!14 Some of our scientists are working on a bomb powered by atomic energy!